Impossibilities
by Black-fire Phoenix Wings
Summary: Something is very wrong- Sherlock is not supposed to deal with this sort of thing. He's not supposed to deal with loss, or any of the intense emotions that accompany it...
1. Anger

Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock and I make no money from this.

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Sherlock was growing tired of this, not that he had much tolerance for it when it first began, though. Everyone was tentatively asking him how he was, and always keeping worried eyes on him, as though he were about to break into pieces…

_So stupid, _he thought to himself in the cab on the way back to 221B_, they think I will be overcome by something so… so…_

He stopped his train of thought. He deemed it as… not worth his energy- yes, that was it. Coming up with the right word was stupid in and of itself.

Instead, he thought of his annoyance at everyone else (too bad they weren't there, though; mocking them always lifted his mood). He'd just been to a murder scene, and everyone there had been downright _bloody nice _to him- as nice as they could all manage without pained grimaces, anyway…

Everyone there had stayed out of his way, Lestrade had been exceptionally patient with him, and even the usual snide remarks from Anderson and Donovan were blaringly absent. Granted, he would have enjoyed the changes otherwise- but it had been deliberate, and why it had been deliberate rather set him on edge.

They thought he was weak like the rest of them; that he wouldn't be able to handle a little loss. Yes, John had made him more open to his emotions, but… but what did they expect him to do? Break down sobbing like a maudlin child in front of the entire city?

He scoffed at the thought. _Sherlock Holmes does not cry._ Oh, he'll pretend to cry, by all means, for a case or some such, but he did not actually, authentically cry. Not for anyone, not ever.

The case was simple and had taken all of 15 minutes. It had actually been a suicide, but fabricated to look like a murder (child's play, hardly worth his time).

Lestrade had been sending him a lot of those lately- simple, dull cases that even the Detective Inspector would recognize as such. Sherlock suspected that was deliberate, too. It was probably a well-intended attempt to keep Sherlock busy and his mind off of his alleged grief. Well-intended, but unnecessary because Sherlock was _not grieving. _

He'd left in a storm, trying to ignore the looks cast onto him by all the other people present. All looks of pity. How he'd longed to punch those expression off everyone of their faces. What did they know? What did _anyone_ of those sorry creatures know? _Nothing- _they all knew _nothing._

And so, there Sherlock was, on his way back to his flat, tapping his fingers against his knee impatiently.

He clenched his fist in his pocket, because it was all he could do to keep from yelling at Mrs. Hudson when she, too, sent him her own gaze of sympathy.

He had some trouble getting the key into the lock- his hand would not stop bloody shaking- so it took him several minutes to finally be able to step into the lonely flat.

Routinely, he removed his coat and scarf and put them onto the rack before he twirled his way over the sofa and dropped onto it.

He wouldn't be alone for much longer, John would get back from the clinic soon- if he wasn't already- in all likeliness.

"Sherlock," came the familiar voice, "Are you alright?"

Point one for likeliness.

The consulting detective, in response, made no effort to hide his irritation. Even his flat mate was doing it. John had made a habit of asking Sherlock how he was and if he was doing alright nearly every time he saw him. _There was nothing wrong with him, why didn't they see that?_

"Lestrade sent me another case- dull as the last one, so you didn't miss anything," Sherlock relayed nonchalantly.

"I mean _you, _Sherlock. How are _you?_"

"_I'm fine_," he answered slowly and forcibly.

"You don't look it. I'm here, if you need to talk."

Sherlock could practically hear the underlying empathy in John's voice and that calm, reassuring tone crawled underneath his skin and set his teeth on edge. He clenched his jaw and forced himself to remain silent in his anger.

"Sherlock?"

He felt his patience snap. Well, at least, he _thought_ it was his patience.

Oh, just sod it all…

"I'M FINE, I'M BLOODY FINE! WHAT'S WRONG WITH YOU PEOPLE? IF YOU WOULD ALL JUST BLOODY _LEAVE ME ALONE, _EVERYTHING WOULD BE ALRIGHT!" he shouted.

John's face didn't change all through Sherlock's emotional upsurge.

"Still here," he said again, walking to the stairs, "Let me know if you need me."

Sherlock lay sprawled on the couch, seething. Shouting had apparently been useless, because that odd burning feeling in the pit of his chest refused to dissipate. He shifted, but his sight met his beloved skull, sitting proudly on the mantel piece.

It looked like it was saying 'idiot' right to the consulting detective.

He sent the skull a short sneer and adjusted his position again, but instead found himself looking at an umbrella leaning against the wall. It was just a random umbrella, but… _it annoyed him._ He forced himself to think this as he looked up at the ceiling. It had nothing to do with… nothing to do with…

He shut his eyes closed, so he wouldn't see the scrutinizing skull or the perfectly normal, ordinary umbrella that _annoyed _him.

He hadn't believed it at first- and he still found himself looking at the whole matter with partial scrutiny (everyone else was writing this off as denial, though, the idiots)- when Anthea, or whatever the Hell her name had been that week, had called to tell him. But he'd laughed at her, and called her an idiot for trying to convince him of such an absurd thing.

Her response had been to send a government car to drive Sherlock off to only-he-could-figure-out-where.

He followed Anthea into an offensively blank, white corridor. Sherlock continued to mock and ridicule her, but, all the while, she seemed to be sincere. _So, it was a big joke, then_, and Sherlock waved it off.

But that little annoying part in the back of his head- overshadowed by the insistent, denying part- told him that that couldn't be it. Mycroft never had any sense of humor.

She stopped right in front of a set of doors and turned to the consulting detective. She asked- almost pleaded- him to believe her, but he never wavered.

Her eyes fell and she ushered Sherlock into the room.

_Alright then, _were Sherlock's first thoughts, _it was a _very elaborate_ joke._

He walked over to where his older brother's body lay.

Makeup and probably a paralytic, that's all it was, Sherlock was telling himself, he was just trying to invoke an emotional response from him, that's all…

"Alright, game's up, Mycroft. Get up," Sherlock told his older brother, but nothing happened.

"Seriously, Mycroft, this is losing it's touch fast."

And still, nothing.

"_Get up you lazy sod!_" He all but yelled at the corpse, bringing his clenched fist onto a nearby table with a bang.

Sherlock paced the room furiously. All the while, all through this, Mycroft's body remained still in its deadened state- his face forever blank. That was eerie…

"You're _not dead_," he accused, jabbing a finger in the body's direction. He threw up his arms, "You're the bloody British Government, you're not supposed to die!" and that was _not _desperation that just leaked into to his voice!

The door opened and a well-dressed man Sherlock didn't recognize walked in.

"Ah, you must be his brother," said the man pleasantly, "I'm so sorry about what happened to him. Murder, I'm afraid- that seems to be your area of expertise, doesn't it? I was wondering if-"

Sherlock stopped listening to him as his mind went into a hazy rush. With all of Mycroft's guards, security cameras, surveillance, power, and just plain cleverness, it didn't make sense that anyone could manage to kill him. It wasn't _possible._

He didn't even let that man finish talking. He knew where it was going, they were going to ask him to investigate on the murder.

He backed away, shaking his head a fraction. _Something was wrong._

_Everything _was wrong with the picture before him. Mycroft _was not dead. _It wasn't _right. _It didn't make any _sense._

Sherlock knew he'd been bored and wanted a good, clever murder to solve, but it didn't… it wasn't supposed to…

Without warning, Sherlock turned, his coat twirling around him dramatically, and practically flew out of the room. Half-running, half-walking, he fled through hallway after hallway.

_Something was wrong, something was wrong, something was wrong._

Those words chanting in his head, constantly. He could practically hear it- it was overpowering.

_Something was wrong, something was wrong, something was-_

"THIS IS NOT RIGHT!" He shouted, stopping suddenly with almost enough force to knock him over.

All that answered him was the small, reverberating echo of his own voice.


	2. Denial

Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock and I make no money from this.

There's some amount of language in this one. Beware for those with sensitive ears… eyes… whatever…

Enjoy!

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"Sherlock? Sherlock, wake up!"

He heard John's voice calling him. The sound was faint and muffled, like there was some sort of screen separating them, but it was slowly becoming clearer.

At first he was confused. Why was John calling him? Was there something wrong with him? But he slowly regained his senses. All he could see was black, and he felt himself being shaken by someone- John, no doubt, with that firm grip on his shoulders.

His eyes flew open.

He had fallen asleep- how humiliating…

John relaxed and let out a long breath.

"What?" Sherlock snapped, now very annoyed at the doctor.

"You fell asleep," John explained quite slowly.

Sherlock just quirked an eyebrow at him and John looked away. The consulting detective rarely ever got any sleep, and John had been pleasantly surprised to find him not neglecting his body for once- even if it had been clearly unintentional. John would have been more than happy to leave him to it, but…

"And then you started screaming and shouting things," John finished rather reluctantly, not sure if he should tell Sherlock this or not.

Red started creeping up to Sherlock's cheeks. "What exactly did I say?" he asked his flat mate in an uncharacteristically small voice.

John dropped his gaze once more, refusing to meet Sherlock's eyes, "You were going on about how something wasn't right, and how someone shouldn't be dead."

His ice-blue eyes widened. A split second later, Sherlock's face was plastered with the blank mask he had been using so much lately, but his cheeks burned bright red.

Sherlock sat up and shot off the couch the both of them had been sitting on, heading to his room in great, long strides.

But John was fast enough to catch up to him. He placed his hand on Sherlock's shoulder with enough force to stop him.

Sherlock turned back toward him, his expression blank but eyes ablaze.

"Sherlock, did it have to do with Mycroft?"

Sherlock raised his hand, and for a moment John thought he was about to hit him. But he used that hand to wrench John's off his shoulder. He stormed off to his room and slammed the door hard enough to nearly unhinge it.

0

Sherlock threw some of the scattered papers that littered his bed onto the floor with as much force that could be forced with papers- he noted with blaring annoyance how impossible it was to slam them onto things properly, curse air resistance!

He sat and ran his hands through his hair, pulling on it until tears began to well up in his eyes- caused by him pulling on his hair, dammit!

It had been bad enough that he fell sleep, but then he just had to have a nightmare and _bloody scream through it!_ This was all Mycroft's fault- he was probably lounging around in his office having a right good laugh at all of this, the selfish bastard.

If Sherlock never hated his brother before, he certainly did now- more than he had ever hated anything. No, "hate" was too soft. He _despised _Mycroft. Despised him, loathed him, detested him, missed him…

…_missed him because he wished he could scream all of this to his stupid face!_

Sherlock realized he had been digging his fingernails into his scalp rather painfully. He let his grip relax slightly as he took deep inhales and exhales.

0

John, after standing stationary in the hallway for a little while, decided- rather lamely, he thought- to make himself a cup of tea and perhaps mull the situation over in his head.

He hadn't even made it halfway to the kitchen before he stopped himself, putting his foot down with a little stamp.

This was absurd. It had been more than two weeks since they heard about Mycroft's passing- John was no expert, but felt it pretty safe to say that Sherlock should have gotten past the denial stage by then.

John quickly steeled himself for his next action. It was perhaps not the best way to handle things, but he couldn't keep ignoring this- Sherlock couldn't keep ignoring this. It was time to take initiative.

He walked to Sherlock's door- well, it was a bit heavier than walking, but not full-blown stomping. Right against the wooden barrier currently separating him from Sherlock, John could hear his flat mate breathing deeply. It wasn't crying, just deep breathing.

He tried the doorknob, but it was locked- _dammit, Sherlock, why do you make things more difficult than they need be?_

Well fine, this was probably going to turn into a shouting match anyway…

0

"Sherlock!" John yelled through the door.

"What do you want? Come to tell me how sorry you feel for me? How you're sorry I'm _drowning in my own agony, _or some other shit like that?" Sherlock snapped.

"No, you idiot- I'm telling you how much of an insufferable, stupid moron you are!"

Sherlock was stunned into silence, his next insult caught in his throat.

"You claim to be a cold-hearted sociopath, but I've seen you! I saw you that night at the pool- you do care, Sherlock, you do have a heart, it's why you're not Moriarty, for God's sake!" John took a short breath, making sure it wasn't long enough to allow Sherlock to start speaking, "You may have said he was your enemy, and you may have been in a childish sibling feud with him, but he was your brother! I may not get on with Harry, but I know that if she died, I would be pretty damn broken!"

"HE'S NOT DEAD!"

John squeezed his eyes shut. That voice Sherlock had shouted in had been filled with so much freshly unearthed anguish it was heartbreaking. But he had to do this, he _had _to stamp out that denial- it would be better in the long run.

"Mycroft is dead, Sherlock! _You_ read the reports, _I _read the reports-"

"THE REPORTS ARE LYING, HE'S NOT-"

"HE IS GONE, SHERLOCK!"

Sherlock was silent again.

John drew in another breath, "You know death better than a lot of people! You've seen dead people, you've seen gruesome instances many times!" -well, so had he, granted, but that was very much beside the point- "You know that when someone is dead, it doesn't matter _what_ they leave behind-" the whole government they previously had control of "-or _who_ they leave behind-" a younger brother is _really does _need to be closely looked after 24/7 "-THEY ARE NEVER COMING BACK!"

"_Stop it!_" Sherlock tried to shout, but his voice cracked, "Please, John… just stop…" he whispered in a small, meek voice that John almost didn't hear.

Sherlock let in a quick, involuntary breath he couldn't suppress. And then another. _Sherlock Holmes did not cry._ He would have cursed to some higher power for this happening to him, but he couldn't find it within himself to do so. Actually, it felt like everything inside was cascading, breaking, and collapsing.

And leaking. Hot salty tears were leaking from his eyes.

He struggled against it all, but could find no more energy to do so, so he gave in. His body gave great shudders, and funny sounds escaped his lips- sobs, oh what a pathetic sound.

John heard the hesitant, almost uncertain crying through the door, and wished immediately he was on the other side of it. This had been goal, in a way, but he still felt the overwhelming need to comfort the suffering man. To help ease this slightly, if he could.

He didn't know if he should, but he whispered, "Sherlock, will you let me in?"

And really, he was asking more than just to be let into Sherlock's room. He was asking to be let into his heart, into his life, into this situation. _Will you let me in, because you need this. You need someone, someone who can help you through this._

John stood, waiting, until he decided that Sherlock wouldn't let him, and he turned to walk away.

But the door opened, and Sherlock stood in the doorway, looking more broken and lost than John had ever seen him- and he hoped it was more so than he would ever see again. Fresh tears stained the man's cheeks, leaking from his reddened and slightly swollen eyes that no longer held the look of an arrogant, intellectual consulting detective, but the look of a man. A man in pain. A man who did not know what to do next.

A man who was letting his deeply emotional side be known for the first time in a very, very long time.

Then, without much warning, Sherlock closed his eyes shut and rested his head onto John's shoulder- his good shoulder, thank goodness. He wondered very briefly if that had been on purpose…

He shook his head and shoved down the awkwardness and carefully wrapped his arms around the taller man, who responded by digging his fingers into John's sweater, which was quickly becoming wet with his tears.

John rubbed Sherlock's back lightly, hoping it would come off as a comforting gesture given the circumstances and not so much a romantic one.

He gave a light sigh as the taller man cried into his shoulder.

_You need someone who will help you through this. I will help you through this._

"You'll be fine," John whispered this reassurance, "You'll get through this. I swear, I will do everything I can to get you through this."

Sherlock managed to choke out something to John, which just barely came out as, "Thank you."

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Reviews are greatly appreciated, as per usual.


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